


I Believe in the Good of Life

by gloss



Category: Actor RPF, Star Wars RPF
Genre: Anal Fingering, Ass Play, Banter, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Recreational Drug Use, Yuleporn, handjobs, stoners
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-17 22:16:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21950575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloss/pseuds/gloss
Summary: Domhnall's stuck in Toronto; Oscar drops by with a bag full of wonderful things. He has a pretty amazing ass.
Relationships: Domhnall Gleeson/Oscar Isaac
Comments: 8
Kudos: 51
Collections: Yuletide 2019





	I Believe in the Good of Life

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sweetillusion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetillusion/gifts).



> huge-ass (like, Oscar's ass-huge) gratitude to my beta.
> 
> [title source](https://youtu.be/ZjhTW4Y4_Zk)

Oscar arrives with damp hair and a knapsack on his back, claiming he's just come from the gym. Domhnall calls bullshit on that — _what adult man goes to the gym, really?_ \- but _Americans_ do, it seems.

As Oscar drops the bag, he slaps his midsection. "My body's an instrument and I'm a goddamn _maestro_."

"I can do arm farts," Domhnall replies, demonstrating until Oscar pushes past him into the apartment.

He stops, looks around, exhales. "Nice place."

"It's not mine," Domhnall says. This is actually his fourth AirBnB in a week. He has terrible luck. "But it's better than the yurt." Oscar glances over his shoulder at that, brow raised, but Domhnall shrugs. "Long story."

"Guess so, yeah." He drops down onto the wide futon, hooking his arms along the back and swinging his knees together and apart, together and apart. "Food's in the bag."

"Tacos?" Domhnall asks. He misses eating tacos with Oscar. Those were good times. When he gets especially maudlin, a couple times a year, he texts the old man that fact: miss u 🌮

Sometimes Oscar even replies.

"Where the hell am I going to get tacos in _Canada_?"

“Don’t you have a hook up for that?” Domhnall asks. It seems like a good question worth asking. 

“Do I look like I have a ‘taco’ hookup in Canada?” 

Clearly the answer is 'no' so Domhnall doesn't bother replying.

The bag is full of snack-size bags of Taytos! It's like Christmas! Also, two foam containers that smell very good, but nothing is as good as Taytos. There's also a Chunky bar, half-eaten, a glittery little herb pipe and baggie, strip of seven condoms and travel-sized lube. A rolled-up copy of the **New Yorker** , because New Yorkers like to read things that validate their superiority and remind everyone else of their identity.

"Big plans?" Domhnall holds up the rubbers. "Where're you headed, man?"

"Nowhere," Oscar says, lowering his voice, doing that _intense_ , slightly-homicidal stare. "You?"

His mouth is full of Taytos, so Domhnall spreads his arms and shrugs as he chews. Nowhere he'd rather be.

He joins Oscar on the futon. They dick around with the host's Playstation for a bit, but there's only one controller and the network's spotty. 

"Get the pipe, would you?" Oscar says without looking away from the screen. "Pack it up."

Out of long habit, Domhnall sifts through the honty, but there's very little crap in among the leaves. No stems at all. He starts to say, "good stuff", but Oscar hushes him until the dread zombie general has been beheaded and quartered.

By then, Domhnall's well on the way to slack-jawed delight. He hands over the pipe and lighter, then rolls on his side to watch Oscar light and inhale. 

"Good stuff," Domhnall says. "Excellent. Thank you."

Oscar exhales in a long, slow stream. The smoke blurs over his features. When it lifts and he clears, he's shifting onto his side to face Domhnall. "Most welcome, sir. Another hit?"

They go back and forth, smoking and gossiping, trailing off into chuckle-shot quiet, for a good long while. Oscar blinks slow as a cat and pets Domhnall's hair.

"Pretty," he says.

"Okay," Domhnall replies and thinks about moving out of range. He does not.

When Oscar gets up to grab something to drink, Domhnall is shocked and flabbergasted and downright blown the fuck _away_ by the sight of him from behind. He gapes and gasps, pointing a shaky finger at the splendor and magnificence. Oscar has often, in interviews, gone on about his arse and how full it is, how remarkably curvaceous, truly an achievement of civilization and the pinnacle of dancing equipment. Domhnall has always rolled his eyes and tried to ignore it.

This close, however, to the notorious ass, he can hardly ignore the truth. It’s gorgeous. It’s heavy and thick and looks like somehow sturdy and grabbable at the same time.

“Why, Oscar! Oscar!”

“Yeah?”

Domhnall struggles up onto his elbow and shakes the hair out of his face, spluttering when it sticks to his mouth. “Oscar!”

“‘Sup?” Oscar drops to a crouch. “Why so riled up?”

“Turn around!”

Tilting his head, Oscar frowns a little, his brows rippling together. “What?”

Domhnall stammers again, then chokes on the spit and has to cough it up. Oscar pounds on his shoulder, but, whimpering, Domhnall curls in on himself protectively. 

“You okay?” Oscar asks, hand going gentle on Domhnall’s shoulder. “God, you’re _bony_. Skeletal. Is that even healthy?”

“Ow,” Domhnall whispers. “That fucking hurt.”

“Sorry,” Oscar says, rising and brushing off his pants.

“You don’t sound very sorry!”

He glances over his shoulder. “I’m not.”

Domhnall opens his mouth to protest, but no sound comes out. He does wheeze a little. In response, Oscar just shakes his head slowly, half in disbelief, half in amusement. 

“You’re okay,” Oscar tells him and finishes retrieving some water from the fridge.

“You’re a very cruel man,” Domhnall announces.

Oscar crosses his legs and sinks down. His balance tips a bit, nudging him against Domhnall’s legs. Domhnall knees him in the small of the back, the water spills, and Domhnall can’t stop laughing.

“Feel better?”

“No,” Domhnall says as the laughs sputter and falter, dwindling away. He tries to compose himself, but dignity is far out of reach. All the same, he sniffs and adds, “You _manhandled_ me.”

“I what now?”

“Laid hands upon me! In a very rough and violent manner!”

“Oh, yeah,” Oscar says. Reclining against Domhnall’s midsection, he drinks down a long swig of water. He twists the cap back on, then tosses the bottle aside, before shifting around so he’s lying on his side, head resting on Domhnall’s thigh. “That I did.”

“Hrmpf,” Domhnall says, then, “hmm.” He brushes his fingers over the hazy halo of Oscar’s hair, the faint frizz that hovers above the actual curls. Oscar’s hair is endlessly fascinating. It’s soft, but not silky, and twines into curls that can be separated — _boing!_ — and combined, divided and collated. 

“Keep doing that,” Oscar murmurs, “I’m bound to fall asleep right here.”

“Could have my way with you then.” Domhnall twists two fingers in the curls and tugs lightly. “If I were a terrible person, that is, and so on. Suchlike.”

“Too bad you’re not.”

“Alas,” Domhnall says, “and alack.”

“Why’d you freak out, anyway?” Oscar turns, drawing closer, until his cheek rests on Domhnall’s hip. “Also, why are you so bony? You’re a grown man!”

“I’m slender.”

“You’re skinny as fuck and you know it.”

“Lithe, perhaps. Certainly limber.”

“Scrawny stringbean skeleton,” Oscar says very firmly. “Your hipbone’s poking me, hard.”

“I’m built like a ballerina,” Domhnall insists. “All lines in constant graceful motion.”

“Sure. Minus the muscle strength,” Oscar says, “and stamina.”

“We can’t all be perfect, can we?”

Oscar sighs gustily. His breath warms the exposed skin across Domhnall’s belly. “Guess not. Must suck to be you.”

“That’s right!” Domhnall starts to sit up, but then collapses back when he realizes moving more would dislodge Oscar. That’s the last thing he wants to do. “That’s what I was riled up about!”

“Buddy,” Oscar says. “Dude. Man. Take a breath, start from the beginning.”

“Your arse,” Domhnall says. “You have a great arse!”

Oscar says, “Yup.”

“Yup? That’s all you have to say?”

Oscar looks up. “What do you want me to say? ‘Wow, news to me, thanks weird bony Irishman, good to know’?”

Domhnall sniffs. He appreciates a good ironic quip with the best of them, but some people are just _obnoxious_. “A ‘thank you’ would not go amiss.”

Oscar wriggles a little farther up the length of Domhnall’s torso. “Thanks, man. Always nice and not at all strange to get butt-ogled by a friend and colleague.”

“You’re positively callipygian!” Now Domhnall does sit up, but not before hooking his arm around Oscar’s neck to keep him close. “Resplendent! Toothsome!”

"Did you smoke a thesaurus while I wasn't looking?"

"You're the Beyoncé of Guatemalan-Americans!"

Oscar rubs his face against Domhnall's shirt before tipping back his head. "You sure know a lot about —"

"Arses? Of course I do. Vanishingly rare where I come from. Highly esteemed."

"About me," Oscar says. "I was going to say you know a lot about _me_."

"Oh," Domhnall replies. "Well, of course."

"Of course what?"

"Of course I do."

“Well, now...” It’s nearly a certainty that Oscar is feigning modesty, but he does it very well. So well that Domhnall is distracted by it. Nearly convinced. Oscar lowers his gaze, his lashes brush his cheek, he hitches a breath and holds it as he bites the inside of his lip. When he looks up, his eyes are bright, almost glittery, and his brows lift, and he seems very young. His voice is soft, but rough. “Why, Mr. Gleeson, I had no idea you cared.”

Time and thought pause. Domhnall could take his cue and maintain the ironic detachment and sarcastic undercutting. Keep using words like “callipygian” (even though it’s accurate, damn it) and addressing each other as “sir” and “Mister”. Say what they don’t mean, dare each other to keep it up, even raise the stakes, until they’re floating on meaninglessness. Or drowning in bullshit.

“There’s a moment in _Karenina_ , you know, where Levin looks at his brother, and...” 

Oscar groans and hits a fist against his forehead. "No Tolstoy, I'm begging you."

Domhnall closes his mouth. He’s losing Oscar’s attention. He probably already did. Oscar is gazing at him again, dark eyes steady and full lips pressed together, but that doesn't mean anything. It's most likely an artifact, a pretense. They’re both very good at pretending attention, looking in the right direction, existing without participating.

He pinches Oscar’s chin, rubs the pad of his thumb over the silvery stubble, and tugs.

In the quiet space between them, there isn’t room to say anything else, but they both come to rest, centimeters apart. Oscar’s eyes are bloodshot in the corners; Domhnall’s throat hurts a little. They’re both getting a little old to be this wasted in the middle of the day. His hair’s in his eyes again, but Oscar brushes it back. He fits his palm around the curve of Domhnall’s skull. 

All of a sudden, he’s sharply aware of his skull, how it’s made up of plates, how thin the bone is, so close to the surface. Of Oscar's fingernails scraping against Domhnall’s scalp. This close, there’s nothing to see but texture and spreading color, dark lashes and tan skin, pockmarks, the embarrassing, nearly radioactive glow of Domhnall’s own pale fingers in Oscar’s dark hair.

“Cherenkov,” he mumbles before he forgets the word, but his lips are brushing Oscar’s, so speech converts to kiss. While their conversation might have been ironic and bickering, their kiss is achingly sincere. Frighteningly so, to be honest, hungry and bristling, shot through with nips and huffs, bites and soft sucking whimpers. Oscar’s sprawled half over Domhnall; their arms are wrapped tight around their necks, almost desperately clinging, like they’re drowning, like they’re flotsam. 

Against him, Oscar is heavy, surprisingly so, and very warm. Their kiss goes shallow, full of panting breaths, as they squirm around — Domhnall to sit a little ways up, Oscar to redistribute weight on his knees. He has to pull back slightly, just long enough to untwist his shirt, which gives Domhnall time to remember where all this started: ass. He yelps and dives forward, hauling Oscar back up so his hands find Oscar’s ass and latch on.

“Happy?” Oscar mutters, as if this is a _hardship_. Like he's doing Domhnall a favor.

“Mmmm,” Domhnall replies, squeezing and massaging those bountiful ass cheeks while dragging his mouth down Oscar’s stubbled throat. “Getting there.”

Oscar’s flushed, his eyes heavy-lidded, when he eases back onto his knees. Domhnall in protest and reaches for him, but Oscar half-smiles, hands stopping on his belt buckle. “Easy, easy. Not going anywhere. Just want to —“

“Lemme help.” Domhnall bats away Oscar’s hands, then struggles at this angle to make any progress on the belt. He _does_ manage to scrape a knuckle open and bend back another finger, however. He drops his hands. “Perhaps not.”

“Don’t pout, for fuck’s sake.” One-handed, because he’s a fucking show-off, Oscar unlatches the buckle and undoes his fly. His jeans slip down the fullness of his hips; hunger blooms, rapid and heavy, in the back of Domhnall’s mouth, then flows in a rush down his chest and up his brainstem, until he’s helium-light and fumbling forward, mouth open and hands slipping, grasping, _pulling_.

Renewed, the kiss goes feral. The angles are wrong, their teeth are sharp, their lips bruising, but Domhnall’s got a hand shoved down the back of Oscar’s jeans and he’s digging his fingers into the swell of muscle. Oscar keeps making short little grunting noises that Domhnall sucks down and swallows; he drives his knee between Domhnall’s thighs and grinds down. The touch is hard and decisive; Domhnall lifts his hips and hooks a leg around the back of Oscar’s thigh, working himself against the warm weight of Oscar’s groin.

“Open up,” Oscar mutters, hand on Domhnall’s hip, thumb digging into the valley of his hipbone. “Dude, if you come in your pants like some stupid kid, I’m never gonna let you forget it. You must know that.”

“Sh’up,” Domhnall croaks. He doesn’t want to let go, not of Oscar’s ass, not of his grip on Oscar’s elbow. Anxiety thrums at the far edges of his nervous system, like he’ll plunge away if he lets go. “I won’t.”

Oscar laughs against his neck. The sound rumbles, half-physical, through Domhnall, then doubles back. Everything hungry inside of him brightens and sharpens, makes him hold on tighter and bite down on the hinge of Oscar’s jaw. 

“Let me touch you,” Domhnall says, tongue thick, “I want inside —” 

"Sure you know what you're doing?" Oscar asks.

"Been a while, but —"

"A while? How long?"

"Fairly straightforward, I should think."

"Yeah?"

"Yes. _Yes_ , damn it."

"What?"

"Everything's an argument and a challenge with you! Why am I getting the third degree when I just want to give you...you..."

Oscar's smile sharpens into a smirk. "You wanna _give_ me something, baby?"

"Yes!" Domhnall shouts. Oscar pretends to lean away, like he has to get out of the line of fire, so Domhnall tightens his grasp on Oscar's waist. "Pleasure, all right? What's wrong with that?"

"Nothing, I guess."

"He guesses," Domhnall tells the room. "He bloody well _guesses_."

"I'm not arguing with you," Oscar says softly. Up on his knees, he's rearranging himself while gripping Domhnall's shoulder for balance. "Don't give me that look, I'm not."

"What look?"

He releases Domhnall's shoulder and traces out whatever mysterious, challenging expression currently sits on Domhnall's face. He cups Domhnall's cheek, working his thumb into the corner of Domhnall's mouth, as he resettles on Domhnall's lap.

"Oh, this is much —" _Better_ , Domhnall was going to say, but Oscar's kissing him. But the position _is_ much better, he can get both hands on Oscar's ass, take hold and sort of _pull_ the guy upward and closer, into the kiss, against him. 

"You were going to touch me?" Oscar asks, a little breathless, and presses his cheek against Domhnall's neck as he works back against Domhnall's hands. 

"You want that?"

"Man..."

"Yeah, yeah," Domhnall says. He'd like, someday, to attempt that aggressively-daring flirtation move Oscar excels at, but not right now. Why dare anything when he's already this close to what he wants?

Blindly, because his arms are locked around Oscar, he slicks his hand and hopes-prays-pleas that the lube is capped when he drops it. For several long moments, he can't open his eyes. He tries to be all touch, but his hand is so sticky and his skin is hot and if he weren't struggling to breathe, he might be laughing.

"Look at me," Oscar says, or asks. It's unclear. Irresistible.

It does help, though. Looking at his wet mouth and heavy eyes, Domhnall finds enough balance to focus on his hands. He digs his less-sticky hand against one buttock while the stickier one strokes at Oscar's crack. He watches Oscar's reactions, hears his breath change, feels his chest expand as he bears down, then rubs against Domhnall's questing touch. 

Their kiss resumes, cracks apart, reassembles, as Oscar works against Domhnall's hands. He shakes slightly, breath irregular inside Domhnall's mouth, teeth grazing. His ass cheeks part, his crack splitting to admit Domhnall's fingers; Oscar freezes, moan and teeth closing on Domhnall's chin. 

Inside, the tension and heat drive Domhnall's fingertips numb. Oscar moves again, head falling forward and rolling against Domhnall's neck and chest. Oscar's moan snaps, going higher and breathier, when Domhnall stops working him open and gets to fucking his fingers in and out.

There's pointless words getting spoken — not exchanged, just said, already forgotten — _like that?_ and _just like that, faster_. They sound and fall like snow flakes, never going anywhere, never gathering.

Oscar draws himself up; from inside, Domhnall feels him lengthen and tighten. Oscar holds his breath and reaches between them. Taking Domhnall in hand, jacking him rough and dry, he sinks back down on Domhnall's fingers.

"More," Oscar says. 

Demand, request, it doesn't matter. Domhnall's folding three fingers together and fucking them in, sliding into the slick, choking tension. He thrusts into Oscar's hand, without much traction, but the friction's enough to rekindle his need outward from his fingers, outward from within Oscar, all the way across his nervous system.

"Harder," Domhnall says, or thinks about saying. He says it around Oscar's tongue, the kiss gathering speed and depth again. He twists his wrist, pulls all the way out to add his pinky, and bites on Oscar's lower lip until Oscar _feels_ the addition, until he pants for it and grinds downward. 

Oscar's hand falls away from Domhnall's dick. He clutches at Domhnall's leg and waist for balance, his eyes closed, mouth open, as he fucks himself on Domhnall. He gasps and grunts, shakes his head like he's disagreeing with a thought, and snaps his hips back and forth. Domhnall finds the soft little patch, the one that makes Oscar's eyes fly open unseeing and glazed and his moan accelerate into a husky, obscene song.

"Get me off," Domhnall tells him, flying inside himself, desperate to get _higher_. Everything feels so tight — the bones in his hand are being crushed, ground together, and his mouth is dry and empty, aching to get filled — that he's going to collapse in on himself. "Fuck, _please_."

Oscar's smile does...something, swollen and slow. He mutters in response, lifting himself and tilting forward to take Domhnall deeper as he wraps his hand back around both their dicks and _pulls_. It's too rough, his hand's dry and strong, and it's exactly what Domhnall wants.

"Like this?" Oscar manages to ask. They're kissing again, shallow and soft, while pawing and pushing. Oscar's up on one knee and fucking himself backward while speeding his hand until Domhnall's vision is going bright and blank. "This what you want? This is what you want."

His voice is scratchy, guttural, right in Domhnall's ear. His mouth is on Domhnall's ear, teeth on the lobe, tongue swirling over Domhnall's cheeks.

Oscar stills, trembling, and says again, "This is what you want?"

Inside, his hole clenches and flutters around Domhnall's fingers. Domhnall tries to spread his hand, tries to take up more space, and Oscar's breath wheezes out.

"Yes, damn it," Domhnall says, trying to lift his hips, trying to find those last few centimeters before coming. " _Please_."

Oscar smiles, nods to himself, and changes his grip. He goes faster, surer, dragging his thumb up the underside of Domhnall's shaft until all the pressure closes Domhnall down, tips him to the side, and he thrusts helplessly, shooting all over Oscar's palm.

He's lost something, he thinks, he's losing the thread, as he comes back to himself, as he realizes Oscar is still riding his hand. Oscar's touching himself now, using Domhnall's come to quicken the motion. He's looking up at Domhnall through lowered lashes, gasping, grunting.

Inside, his hole's flickering, clutching, twisting Domhnall's hand to its own shape — something like a beak, deep and slippery — searching. He's starting to curl in on himself, pulling away, shutting down. Domhnall kisses Oscar's neck, the base of his throat where the pulse is jumping, and wraps his free hand around Oscar's cock to tug him the rest of the way.

"Really tight," he tells Oscar and crosses index and middle finger. Oscar's face is contorted and flushed dark, eyes screwed shut. Even as he comes, the pleasure rushing electrically over both of Domhnall's hands, Oscar's closed and twisting away. " _Fuck_ , Oscar, you're —"

Oscar shoots and curses; he ends up nearly Domhnall's arm length away, legs splayed. Domhnall's arm emerges from between his legs like something alien.

"Hell," Oscar mumbles when Domhnall works himself free. "Fuck, and hell."

"I prefer 'heaven', thanks," Domhnall says. He doesn't know where to wipe his hands, if it's rude to. He pokes Oscar's side with his foot. "You want something to drink?"

"In a minute, yeah." Oscar's forearm covers his eyes. His chest rises and falls rapidly.

Domhnall should get up. Wash his hands, compose himself. Maybe take another couple hits on the pipe, smooth out the harsh edges he's starting to feel everywhere.

"There's lasagna in the bag," Oscar says a little later. "Does this place have a microwave?"

For the life of him, Domhnall can't remember. He shifts a little closer to Oscar and hopes the answer comes to him.


End file.
